


right here in the light

by HomebodyNobody



Category: The Librarians (TV 2014)
Genre: Alternate Canon, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Universe, Cuddling, Dorian Gray - Freeform, F/M, First Kiss, First Time, The Librarians and the Image of Image, The Portrait of Dorian Gray, Workplace Romance, bed sharing, nosy friends
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-06
Updated: 2019-02-06
Packaged: 2019-10-23 07:19:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17678954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HomebodyNobody/pseuds/HomebodyNobody
Summary: “I thought Dorian’s spell was broken.” Jake says. Cassandra unlatches the arm she’d had around Baird’s neck and reaches out to him both hands, and Jake rushes forward to catch her before she faceplants. His arms find their usual spot around her waist. There’s an instant where he realizes that he spends quite a bit of time holding her up, or helping her down from or through something. He tries to unwind himself, but as soon as his support is gone she stumbles again. He gives up and leaves one arm around her. She laces her fingers together over his shoulder and leans her face against her hands. Her teased hair scratches against Jake’s face, and under the smell of hairspray there’s something citrus.“It did,” Ezekiel says, looking gleeful, “Now she just has to recover the long way.” Baird rolls her eyes.______________________________An alternate canon AU in which, instead of sobering up and getting an immediate hangover, Cassandra has to sober up the long way. She doesn't go home alone.





	right here in the light

**Author's Note:**

> I started this... /forever/ ago. I watched all of The Librarians in about a month and was periodically wildly obsessed with these two, and I think I genuinely hate TNT for not letting them kiss at least once. And the image of image is one of my favorite episodes, mostly bc Cassandra falls on Jake like at least twice and we get to see her loopy and silly, which never ever happens. I just decided to explore what might have happened had we gotten to see some of the more romantic consequences of Cassandra's unlucky coincidence.   
> (Title from Submarines by the Lumineers)

They all meet back up at the Annex. Ezekiel and Jake make it back first, Baird a few moments later, dragging a still significantly inebriated Cassandra. 

Jake’s heart has been doing a stupid little flip every time he sees her tonight. Cassandra is normally girly and cute, a lot of pastels, a lot of flowers and flowy dresses. If he’s honest, the pencil skirt has him a little messed up

“Jacob!” Cassandra shouts, and Baird stumbles as her body tips forward with Cassandra’s enthusiasm. 

Ezekiel casts a glance at Jake.  _ Jacob? _ He mouths. Jake shrugs. 

“I thought Dorian’s spell was broken.” Jake says. Cassandra unlatches the arm she’d had around Baird’s neck and reaches out to him both hands, and Jake rushes forward to catch her before she faceplants. His arms find their usual spot around her waist. There’s an instant where he realizes that he spends quite a bit of time holding her up, or helping her down from or through something. He tries to unwind himself, but as soon as his support is gone she stumbles again. He gives up and leaves one arm around her. She laces her fingers together over his shoulder and leans her face against her hands. Her teased hair scratches against Jake’s face, and under the smell of hairspray there’s something citrus. 

“It did,” Ezekiel says, looking gleeful, “Now she just has to recover the long way.” Baird rolls her eyes. 

“Doesn’t seem fair,” Jake mutters. Cassandra makes a small noise of discomfort against his shoulder. He strokes her side with his thumb absentmindedly. 

She picks her head up slowly and he turns to look at her. Her blue-green eyes are half-lidded and sleepy, and a tiny part of Jake’s brain wonders if this is how she looks in the mornings. She opens her mouth to say something, but when everyone turns to listen, she just puts both her hands on the side of his face and squishes his cheeks. “Helloooooo, handsome,” she croons. Ezekiel snorts, and Baird and Jenkins hide rare smiles. 

Baird reaches out for Cassandra. “I can get her back to her apartment.” 

“No!” Her voice is sharp in Jacob’s ear and he jumps. “No,” she says again, softer, and pokes his cheek. “Jake can take me.” A jolt goes through his chest at her use of the nickname. 

“Oh yeah,” Ezekiel laughs. He’s leaning against a desk with his arms crossed over his chest, a mischievous grin nearly splitting his face in two. “Jake can take her.” He rocks forward to his feet and pulls his phone out of his pocket. “I can’t watch this mess anymore.” He sets his location and the door swings open, pulsing blue light. “I’m going home.” Using his phone to gesture towards Baird he says, “Have fun!” and then disappears. 

Baird turns to Jenkins. “Do we actually know where he lives?” He shrugs. She moves her attention to Jake, but his eyes are locked on Cassandra. She’s lost her burst of energy and is now dozing on his shoulder. Baird would be lying if she said she hadn’t noticed what was going on with them. She is, after all, a master of body language. She’s seen the furtive looks and the not-so-sly smiles. But she’s never seen him so… soft. It’s almost unnerving. He’s entirely holding Cassandra up as she slowly puts all of her weight on him

Jenkins follows her eyeline and then turns back to her, his eyebrows raised. “Colonel, since the mission is complete and you have all returned safely, I will be retiring to my research.”

Baird nods, pressing her lips together. “Good night, Jenkins.” He gives Jake a wave and goes, with his usual air of exasperation. “Stone?” 

He looks up at her, suddenly enough that Cassandra jerks out of her daze and glares grumpily at him. “I’m good. I’ll get her a cab and get her home.” 

“Mmmm, home,” Cassandra hums, and then extends her arms, reaching around Jacob’s shoulders, smacking him in the nose in the process. “Bed. Sounds nice.” Jake flinches and a flicker of amusement crosses Baird’s face. 

“Good luck with that one, Stone. I’m going home and getting out of this ridiculous outfit.” Baird has an apartment in Portland like the rest of them (except maybe Ezekiel) and heads for the front door rather than the magical one. 

With the rest of the team gone, Jake turns his attention to the very tiny, very drunk redhead currently clinging to him. She’s looking around the Annex blearily, pausing to give him long, bewildered glances. “How ya feelin, Cass?” he asks. 

Her face goes from sleepy to giddy in an instant. “Everything’s all spinny.” She says, her eyes circling the ceiling. Then she pauses, drags her gaze down to meet his. A slow smile creeps across her face. “You called me Cass.” 

He can’t help but smile in return. “I did.” 

Her voice is impossibly soft. “I like it when you call me Cass,” her eyes are still bleary, but at least she’s stopped slurring. 

“Yeah?” 

She nods, childish. “Makes me feel special.” 

And damn if that doesn’t break his heart. “That’s --” He coughs. “That’s good, Cass.” 

She giggles, a bright, happy sound. “You did it again.” A strand of hair is stuck in her lipstick, and he reaches up to brush it away. Her eyes drop to follow the movement, but they don’t flicker back up to his. Instead, they catch on his lips. His heart stops. She leans in. Instinctively, his eyes flutter closed, and he wonders if she can hear his racing pulse, but she pushes her weight too far and stumbles. He steps back to adjust for the shift in weight as the moment shatters.

“All right, okay.” He says on a sigh, and she giggles and falls into his chest. “Let’s get you home.”

Jake gets Cassandra into the cab, but she appears to fall asleep before she can tell the driver where to go. “Cassie,” he tries, shaking her shoulder. She hugs his arm and pushes her face into his shoulder. “Cassie, address?”

She shakes her head. “Don’t wanna go home.” And then, quieter. “Don’t wanna be alone.” 

“Okay,” Jake sighs. “Okay, okay, okay.” His mind races as he wonders what to do, but thinking is hard with Cassandra, warm and making small noises, cuddled into his shoulder. She needs to go home and go to sleep. He needs to go home and take a very cold shower. 

“Dude,” the cabbie snaps. “Meter’s runnin.” 

Jake curses under his breath. He glances down at Cassandra, whose eyes are squeezed shut, her grip tight on his arm, and makes a split second decision. “8542 North Oswego,” he says. “My place.” 

The ride is short. None of the librarians live far from the bridge, and Jacob’s neighborhood is less than five minutes. The cabbie pulls up in front of his little blue house on the quiet suburban street, and Cassandra wakes up enough to comment on it. “You live here?” she asks as he helps her out of the car.

“Yup,” he grumbles, trying to balance her wobbling and get out his wallet to pay the driver. Discovering quickly he is unable to do both, he props her up against the trunk of the car. 

“There’s a porch,” she says, in her high, incredulous voice that she usually reserves for when Ezekiel does something especially stupid. “And columns.” 

“Yeah, small ones,” Jacob hands the guy a wad of cash, with a hefty tip for dealing with them, and extricates himself from the passenger side window. “What of it?” 

She gesticulates with her clutch as he hoists her off the cab, one of his arms around her waist, the other pulling her arm over his neck. “Cowboy has a porch,” she giggles, and then, seeing the navy blue chairs on the porch, “And rocking chairs!” She shrieks with laughter, knees buckling. He hasn’t even gotten her past the sidewalk yet. He stops struggling forward when she turns her face to his. Her eyes are even less hazy than they were in the annex, and he has a small inkling she’s letting herself act like this, loose and lazy. Two adjectives which he would never use to describe Cassandra Cillian. The drunkenness was a mistake, but she might even be enjoying this. The chance to be a normal 27 year old young woman, too drunk after a night out to stand, laughing at anything remotely surprising or funny. God knows she never really had a chance to. The notion breaks his heart, just a little. “It’s funny,” she explains, her expression suddenly serious. 

He lets himself chuckle. “Okay, Cass. Now let’s get you inside.” 

“Inside,” she nods exaggeratedly. “Oooookay!” She tries to take a big step forward, and he sees the issue the second before her stiletto heel hits his cobblestone walkway. He swears and jerks her backwards before she can roll her ankle. “What was that for?” 

“You can’t walk across this path in those shoes,” he replies, “Hell, you could barely walk down the sidewalk in London in those shoes.” The memory of her crashing down on top of him flickers through his head, and the warm weight of her against him threatens to kickstart butterflies in the pit of his stomach. Cassandra mumbles under her breath and tries to lean down to pull one of them off, but almost topples over again in the process. 

“My center of gravity is acting up,” She mumbles. It’s adorable, that she’s  _ mad at physics _ for causing her clumsiness. 

“Alright, Cass. This is how we’re gonna do this.” He stoops down and she frowns at him for a moment before he quite literally sweeps her off her feet. He doesn’t think about it until it’s already done, one arm around her back, the other cradling her knees. She’s not glaring at him, but the look on her face is definitely a little off, and all of a sudden she’s incredibly close again, her eyes locked with his.  

“What was that for?” she asks, whisper-soft. Their noses are a hair’s width apart and he lets himself lean in, just enough for them to brush. Her breath still smells like vodka tonic, and it’s the only thing that stops him. 

He looks away and shakes his head to clear it and starts up the path. “Don’t want you hurting yourself on the --” he makes the mistake of looking at her again, and her eyes are almost completely clear now. They’re blue, almost teal, and with the strands of red hair floating around her face he is reminded of the Ninth Wave -- the only seascape he’s ever liked -- with the blaze of sunset above green waves.  He clears his throat. “On the cobbles.” 

She breaks his gaze and looks down, kicking her feet a little, apparently reminded of the daggers attached to them. “Right,” she laughs softly, “My heels.” 

“Yeah,” he says, and climbs the steps. “Those shoes are practically death traps.” He sets her down once they get to the porch and helps her into a rocking chair. With a more stable base, she can actually get her shoes off. She pushes back and forth with her stockinged toes, the chair squeaking in protest. Jake is quickly shoving all sappy daydreams of the both of them in matching rocking chairs on their own porch someday as far deep as he can.

“Not as bad as these chairs, though” she says, while Jake digs in his pocket for his key. “What, did you make these yourself?” 

He lets out a huff of a laugh. She’s feeling enough like herself to make fun of him, that’s a good sign. “I did actually,” he says, getting the door open and reaching out to help her up. 

“Oh no, Jake!” He can’t help but suppress a smile at the concern on her face. Cassandra may tease, but she’s still Cassandra. “I’m sorry!” 

“It’s okay Cass,” he chuckles. She doesn’t need as much help now that she’s not standing on 4 inch spikes, and he guides her into the house with just a hand at her lower back. As she passes, her shoulder brushes against his chest, and is that… a shiver that passes through her? It can’t be. He was literally holding her less than a minute ago. But she straightens nonetheless as she goes by. He follows her in and locks the door. 

He’s struggling to keep it cool right now. There’s been a ridiculous amount of physical contact happening that he was definitely not prepared for and now she’s standing barefoot and tired in his entryway; all he wants to do is go to bed, preferably with her in his arms. Also, he can’t really say that out loud. “Did you -- did you want to shower?” His voice seems too loud in the dark, quiet space. 

“Is that allowed?” she asks immediately, and then stops herself. Allowed. Of course Cass would ask if something was allowed. The question makes him want to smile but he knows he’ll take it as him laughing at her, so he resists.  “I mean --” she swallows, looks down at her feet. “If that’s okay.” 

Jake trips over himself a little bit to oblige. “Yeah, okay, uh --” he scratches the back of his head, his feet shuffling in a circle. “Upstairs and to the -- I’ll just -- I’ll just show ya.” They head up the stairs, her feet silent under the sound of his scraping boots. 

There’s a sneaking sense of self-consciousness about his home as he leads Cassandra past the art in the stairwell. In Oklahoma, he had to keep his house hick-appropriate, for when his buddies came over to watch the game, or his sister needed to drop something off. He kept his walls bare and the same generic beige so he wouldn’t be accused of caring about the appearance of things, or anything else besides, drinking, fighting, and football. In this place, he’s finally allowed to express himself in his home, like a normal person. He starts wondering if she’s noticing the paintings on the pale blue walls and hopes she isn’t going to tell Jenkins about the ones he’s appropriated from the archives. And then they get to the top of the stairs and he tells himself to stop being stupid and worry about what’s in front of him. Decorating choices really should not be at the top of his priority list right now. 

He has a minor crisis questioning if he should take her to the master bathroom or the guest, and then a similarly sized meltdown when he realizes the sink in the guest bath is non functional and he only has one bed in the house. He takes her to the master bath. “Towels are under the sink,” he says. “I’ve only got 3 in 1 in the shower I hope that’s okay, and uh I could probably find you some clothes…”  He turns to face her, but she’s not looking at him. Her eyes are wandering the room, taking it in. “...Cass?” 

“This house is nice,” she says quietly, and she’s got that look in her eyes that means she’s not totally in tune with the world around her. Lost, in a vision or a hallucination, or maybe a dream. “But it’s so big.” Her heels drop to the floor with a pair of soft thuds. And then, almost under her breath. “Too big.” Her hands come up slowly, and her fingers twitch, as if playing an invisible piano. It’s like when she’s figuring out some insanely complex math problem, guiding her hallucination through the air, but this time her face is different. Dreamy, rather than focused. “There should be a family in this house,” she says, but not to him. 

“Cass,” he says again, and takes a step towards her. He normally loves when she starts to solve, despite where the skill originates. Sometimes it scares him, when she starts to stutter and stumble, but when she has it under control, it’s magnificent to watch. This time, it’s not scary or beautiful, but almost unnerving. A kind of lost he can’t guide her out of. “Cass, what are you seeing?” 

“Memories,” she replies, her voice almost a whisper. And then, a small laugh. “Never really seen them like this before.” Tears start to well up in her eyes and he closes the distance, his hands coming up to hold her elbows. She doesn’t react to the touch. “My family, before everything changed before…” her fingertips just brush her temple, where her tumor is, gift and destruction all the same. Her body jerks and her eyes close, a tear rolling down her face as the images disappear. She tries to pull away from him, retreat back into the excuse of drunkenness, but he won’t let her. He tightens his grip, her hands ceasing their fluttering and coming to rest on his chest. “Sorry,” she says. Her face scrunches up, like it does when she’s resetting, coming back to reality. 

His hands slide up to cradle her face, using his thumb to wipe away the tear. He can’t help but notice how soft her skin is under his work-roughened hands. “Don’t apologize,” he says, “just talk to me.” 

She shakes her head, her eyes still closed, her mouth tight. “My -- my family --” she chokes on the word and claps her mouth shut again, shakes her head again, more violently this time. 

“Hey hey hey,” he says, “Hey, it’s okay, you don’t have to.” She grabs at him, her fingers fisted in his shirt, pushing her face against his chest. He slides his hands up and down her back as her breaths come faster. He’s seen her dirty and bleeding but still going, desperately fighting through headaches on missions, fearless in the face of death, but seeing her here, like this, shuddering and trying to fight her way out of her own head… “Hey,” he says, trying to keep his voice soft and slow, comforting. “Breathe, Cassie. Just breathe.” He evens out his breathing, and she begins to match it.

He used to do the same thing for his mom, when he was a teenager and the bills weren’t getting paid. His father would be out at the bar, and he would be at home, calming down his mother as she went over numbers in red ink again and again. As much as he hates to be, he knows how to calm someone down from the start of a panic attack. 

As her breathing slows, he presses a kiss to her forehead, and she pulls her head back to look at him. Their eyes meet for a second, but it’s almost like it’s too powerful to hold, and her eyes drop to his chest. “Sorry,” she says on a humorless laugh, rubbing the fabric of his shirt between her fingers. “Looks like I got makeup on you.” He takes a step back from her, his fingers still curled around her arms. 

“It's okay,” he says, and then he steps back, puts a forced smile on his face, if only to encourage her to smile. He’s still wearing the monkey suit Jenkins gave him. As good as he feels in it, it’s hellishly uncomfortable. From the moment he put it on, he missed his Carhartts. “Not even mine.” It must work, because she smiles in return. 

“Right,” she says, and steps out of his grip. She swipes her fingers under her eyes to wipe away the dripping makeup. “I should get cleaned up.” she’s closing down again, and he can see it, but he chooses not to push. It’s the kind of closing that comes with acceptance; of knowing that a good night’s sleep will do her more good than anything else. 

He remembers why they’re here in an instant. “Yeah, yeah of course.” The dresser is in the bedroom, next to the door that adjoins the two, and he goes deep into the back of his drawers to pull out a pair of green plaid boxers and a gray t-shirt from when he played football in high school. 

She takes them with a small smile. “Thank you.” Their hands brush as he passes the bundle and there’s the spark again, the one that’s been flickering all night, at every touch. His smile this time is genuine. “Really, Jacob” she repeats, and her voice is softer now, lower. The kind of tone she reserves for serious moments. “Thank you.”

His voice is just as soft with her response. “Of course, Cassie. Any time.” 

He closes the door behind him and falls back against it, closing his eyes. So much just happened. He’s been nursing this stupid crush on Cassandra practically since the day he met her, and the second she gets drunk she’s all over him. It had to be the alcohol talking, the emotional shitstorm that it caused. He’s really trying not to get his hopes up, but it’s hard when his skin can still feel the memory of her against him. Telling himself to snap out of it, he grabs his own pajamas out of the dresser and then sets about grabbing blankets and a pillow from the linen closet to set up on the couch downstairs. 

As a last thought, he grabs a glass of water, a bottle of yellow gatorade, and a bottle of ibuprofen from the kitchen. As he’s leaving them on the nightstand, she comes out of the bathroom. His stupid heart does another fucking flip. The killer makeup and the tight skirt were one thing, but now she just… she looks so soft. She put her wet hair into two little french braids that stick out and she’s practically drowning in his t-shirt. It’s like every stupid domestic fantasy he’s ever had come to life. “I was just --” He feels caught, even in his own bedroom, “I was just leaving you some stuff, for uh -- for the morning.” He keeps looking between the supplies and her, and the quick flashes that register are of her smile growing wider. “You might not feel very well,” He finishes in a hurry. “I’m gonna go.” 

“You don’t have to,” she says, when he’s almost to the door. He stops dead. “Please -- please don’t go.” When he turns, she’s on her toes, like a bird ready for flight. It’s something she does sometimes when she’s calling after someone, a reminder or a request. “I don’t -- I don’t want to be alone.” Her voice is small and fragile. The request is a surprise, but he understands why. She’s tired, and almost died at the hands of an immortal, youth-obsessed madman. He wouldn’t want to be alone either. But she’s faced worse odds, had worse days, and been alright. There’s a small part of him saying that she just wants to be with him, but he pushes that down. 

“Cass, are you…” His body feels frozen. “Are you sure?” She bites her lip and looks down at her toes, bare and curled into the carpet. Her toenails are light blue. She nods. “Then, okay, yeah. I’ll stay.” Every part of him is screaming that this is a terrible, horrible idea. Getting into the same bed with the girl you have a crush on while she’s wearing your clothes? Oh yeah, Stone, perfect plan. Love it. Absolutely nothing is going to go wrong,  _ moron _ . All the same, he turns off the light. He’d turned on the lamp when he’d left the hangover cure, and Cassandra crawls into the side closest to it. She’s practically glowing in the lamplight and his arms almost ache to hold her. This close, he can see the gold chain of her little bow necklace she always wears, and the freckles dusted across the bridge of her nose. He really loves her freckles. 

She turns off the lamp and settles in on her side, facing him. He can’t even see her outline in the dark, but he feels her fingers reach out and tangle together with his. “Thank you,” she whispers, the last breath of one on the edge of sleep. 

“You're welcome,” he responds, her trust leaving him breathless. He doesn’t think he’ll be able to sleep, but he’s exhausted from the events of the night, and the rhythm of her breathing soon gets the better of him. He’d forgotten how much easier he sleeps with someone else in his bed.  

The night passes quickly, and for the first time in a long time for the both of them, without dreams. 

 

Jacob Stone normally wakes with the dawn. It’s a force of habit, born from farm chores and early shifts. Sleeping in past seven am is a luxury, in the rare occasion that it happens. So when his eyes open and there’s mid-morning sun filtering through the curtains, he is mildly confused. 

The sun isn’t the only thing baffling him. There’s something warm and heavy curled against his chest, and red fuzz blurring his view and tickling his nose. He tenses for half a second when he realizes the something warm and heavy is Cassandra. Her braids have dried and frizzed, and one arm is tucked between them, the other slung loose around his waist, her hand curled loosely in the back of his t-shirt. Somehow, he ended up holding her, one arm falling asleep under her head and curled around her shoulders, the other around her waist. 

This was not something he was expecting but also not something he’s complaining about. When it’s evident she’s still out cold, he relaxes again. He gets maybe a few minutes before she wakes up and freaks out. He feels a little guilty not waking her up immediately, but he wants this so badly; knowing what she looks like sleeping and peaceful, how she feels, completely relaxed in his arms. As much as he covers it up, tamps down the urge to touch her absentmindedly when they stand right next to each other at the work table in the annex, pretends he doesn’t need her like he needs oxygen, and sleep, and the library -- he loves her. Loves her, in that quiet, solid, steady way that comes from being steeped in it for so long. Loves her, in the way he knows that her loving him is an impossibility. His eyes slide shut, relishing the last few moments he has, knowing how it might feel. 

When he wakes again, it’s to fingertips tracing over his brow bone, the light having taken on an early afternoon slant. His eyes open slowly, and there’s Cassandra, the sunlight illuminating her eyes, open and watching him. He’s not entirely sure what’s happening, and stays completely still, waiting for her to take the lead. “You stayed,” she whispers. 

“You asked me to.” He responds, unsure if the fact that he’s still here is a good or a bad thing, in her eyes. 

“I did?” she asks, but there’s a lie behind her eyes. She was almost completely sober before they fell asleep, and they both know it. 

Jacob is tired of the lies, of the pretending. He can only lie to himself, to her, for so long. “Don’t pretend --” he starts, but then her fingers trace down the sides of his face, her fingernails catching slightly in the hollow just under his jawbone, and his breath, traitor that it is, hitches slightly in his chest. Hers does the same, and her eyes flicker up from where they’d been resting on his mouth. They’re so bright and green and clear, the haze of confusion and drunkenness from the previous night gone completely. “Like you don’t --” he’s having trouble remembering the end of the sentence, with her eyes like that, her lips so close. Her freckles, normally hidden under makeup, stand out against her pale skin in the fuzzy light, and he wants to kiss every single one of them. She reminds him of a Vermeer, brilliant in an understated way. Special to the kind of person with the right eye. Lit up, shining and brilliant. 

“Like I don’t what?” she asks, and the words are just a breath over his mouth as they are drawn to each other. Leaning in is as easy as falling. There’s a kind of gravity that pulls them in. She swears she starts every day careful of her distance, actively trying to never stand too close. But it never works, and every evening, there he is, warm behind her shoulder, with his kind eyes and rough voice. There to catch her, in every sense of the word. 

“Like you don’t --” he starts again, but getting lost in her is so easy, like second nature. Unconsciously, his arm tightens around her, solid and heavy and warm in the curve of her waist. She sighs, and he can’t help but think that she feels so right in his arms. So comforting, the perfect shape to hold. “-- don’t remember…” he trails off. 

“Remember what?” But neither of them know where his sentence was supposed to go, and neither seem to care. Cassandra’s brain is whizzing, on high alert, every part of her mind blathering loudly about worst case scenarios and risk/reward assessments, but where she would usually shut down, get lost in the chaos, there seems to be a heavy screen between her anxiety and the rest of her consciousness. His touch always seems to do that. It protects her from herself, clearing her mind, freeing her from her constant chaos. It was why she thought she would be better on her own; she thought that Jake being around was infringing on her ability to solve puzzles, to think at light speed and come to impossible answers faster than should be humanly possible. But she was wrong. Jake keeps her grounded, keeps her sane. 

Cassandra sets him free. She gives him permission to finally be himself, feel confident in his mind. She breaks the ropes keeping him tied to who he thinks he should be. She wants the world for him, and he wants to give it to her. It’s that thought that closes the gap. He’s a better man with Cassandra, and he can’t go another second without letting her know. 

Their kiss is slow and languid, Jake asking a question, Cassandra answering. And answering, and answering. And it’s so much more than a physical expression of what they mean to each other. It’s a promise. They’re putting everything on the line with this, and their kiss is an unspoken exchange.  _ Will you keep me safe _ ? She asks with her lips, and his hands at the small of her back answer  _ yes _ .  _ Will you keep me from getting lost _ ? He asks with kisses against her neck, and her fingernails against his scalp answer  _ yes _ .  _ Will you hold me up? Will you keep me grounded? Will you keep me sane? Will you let me fall? Will you set me free? _

_ Yes _ , comes the answer.  _ Yes, yes, yes.  _

Slowly, they undress each other, pressing bashful laughter into bare skin. His morning stubble scratches her stomach, and she can’t stop running her fingers through his salt and pepper hair. Everything becomes golden and full of light, colors swirling and distorting the world like a van gogh, until she can swear he’s the only other person in the world. He is hard where she is soft, rough where she is smooth. They fit like puzzle pieces, cut out for each other from entirely different pictures. 

 

After, he gives her an old pair of overalls she cuts into shorts, an old clasp from a bolo tie turning into a brooch, a freshly clean bandana taming the frizz from her braids. She doesn’t have any makeup to put on, and seems ashamed, but Jake kisses her solidly before they get in the car and tells her she’s never looked more beautiful. 

After, they come in to work at the same time, and even though they drop each other’s hands when they come through the door, Baird gives him a knowing smile. Jenkins, ever oblivious, only reacts when Ezekiel (loudly) points out the purple mark that flirts with the collar of Jake’s shirt. 

After, they smile at each other through the ensuing interrogation, and feel almost disappointed by the arrival of a mission from the clippings book. 

Jake hasn’t trusted happily ever after since that day in Washington, but when Cassandra turns to smile at him before she jumps through the glowing back door, he feels like he might be getting close.    
  


**Author's Note:**

> hahahaha I'm supposed to be studying for a circuits test!!  
> I realize this fandom is... long dead.... and this pairing never got a ton of love, so if you're here, HELLO AND WELCOME TO THE DEN OF MADNESS!! But in all seriousness this is one of the fics I've written I'm more proud of -- I think it has some really sweet moments, and I honestly do love both of these characters with my whole heart. So, if you're a die hard Jassandra fan like me, thanks for staying, it means the world!! I would absolutely love it if you dropped me a comment telling me what you liked!! Also, I totally made a playlist from Jake's perspective, about Cassandra, and it's all country bc lbr that oklahoma boy would not listen to anything else. Hmu at greenishgriffin on tumblr if you want to give it a listen!!


End file.
